


Forced Perspective :: Therapy, One Slap At A Time (Altpower!Taylor)

by theonewhowas



Category: Parahumans Series - Wildbow
Genre: Therapy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-08
Updated: 2020-03-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:13:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 16,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22166197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theonewhowas/pseuds/theonewhowas
Summary: The world is full of shitty, selfish, apathetic, petty, stupid people. So is Earth Bet. What if Taylor could change that, one slap at a time?If this sounds familiar, it's because there was another story with that premise. Unfortunately, their view of what "therapy" meant was... frankly disrespectful of neuroatypical people, and not at all what someone who has gotten therapy looks like.This Taylor delivers actual therapy. Let's see how well that goes.
Comments: 62
Kudos: 181





	1. Obligatory

> “I’ve forgiven her,” she said, gaze intent, almost challenging. “But not because she made me. Because I chose—it’s what was best for me, okay? _My_ choice.” - Sophia Hess  
> 

Trapped in a squishy, foul-smelling locker, abandoned by my former friend and the useless other students who just watched, trying not to retch and failing, I couldn’t do anything but continue crying out in the hope anyone, literally _anyone_ around me, had even the _barest_ sense of common human decency. 

It took only ten minutes for that hope to die. 

_This is it_ , I thought. _I’m going to die here, forgotten—no, deliberately ignored by hundreds of students who wouldn’t even lift a finger to help someone in need._

How did that even happen? How broken did someone have to be to see suffering and just… _do nothing_? And not just one sociopath—although there were clearly quite a few, Emma and Sophia among them—but all of those people who just stood by and witnessed me being tortured and _looked away_? 

How hard was it to make people _care_ , even a little bit? 

That was the real truth, wasn’t it? Nobody cared. Nobody could get over their own petty, stupid issues long enough to get anything done. Everyone was just too self-absorbed, or broken, or indifferent, or apathetic to stop bad things from happening. They just shrugged and thought, “oh well, not worth my time” or “at least that’s not me” or, worse, _laughed_ at what I went through. Too wrapped up in their own petty hatreds, bigotry, social posturing, selfishness and shortsightedness to help anyone unless it benefited them first. 

Couldn’t they at least try? Couldn’t they even _pretend_? 

The halls were empty, everyone in class. Everyone who heard me screaming and banging my fists on the locker door just walked past me, thinking it would be someone else’s problem… or not giving me any thought at all. 

Metal pressed against me on all sides, crushing. My shoulders ached from how I was squeezed into the locker, my hair matted and fouled from what they had shoved in here—rotting, stinking—my fists sore from pounding them against the door, and I just knew, _no one cared. No one would ever_ — 

=== 

A brief, dizzying moment. Time skipped like a scratched record, thoughts fading like a bad dream upon waking. 

I took a shallow breath through my mouth, counted as I held it, then exhaled slowly. 

_Well_ , I thought, _this sucks_. 

_God, highschool. How stupid. How inane, how meaningless_. I would have laughed, if the sudden accidental intake of foul air through my nose hadn’t forced me into measured, shallow breaths again. How little any of it mattered, in the big picture, with the smallest bit of perspective. I would graduate, I would go to college, I would get a career, I would move on, and anything and anyone that caused me stress as a teenager would be nothing but an unpleasant memory. 

But first... I had to get out of this locker. 

Just had to pace myself, conserve energy. Every minute—seconds carefully counted—another shout for help, another few rattles of my cage, bruising the skin of my palms as I slapped the rusted metal. Distracted myself from the filthy refuse beneath my sneakers, the texture of dried gunk on my skin… more shallow, measured breaths, and— 

“Who’s making all that racket?” A voice, gruff, an older man. Not a teacher I recognized. A janitor? 

“Help! I’m trapped in my locker!” A pause—my heart skipped a beat, _no, don’t go_ —then hasty footsteps on cheap linoleum tile. 

“This better not be a stupid prank,” the man grumbled, closer now. Considering Winslow, I couldn’t fault him his suspicion. 

“I wish,” I muttered under my breath, then banged the door with my hand again, hoping he could track it. He could, and did. 

I waited for several minutes for him to fetch the master key and, finally, let me collapse out of the locker and into his surprised arms, my legs having fallen asleep without me realizing. The freedom felt electric, even as he fussed over me, helping me stagger over to the nurse’s office. There was more fussing—pictures taken, perpetrators named, the stupid ‘prank’ explained, cleaning me up, the principal called in, then my father—but all I could think was, _even if this was what it took for all of you to care... I’m glad you’re finally paying attention_. 


	2. You Can’t Go Home Again

# 2\. You Can’t Go Home Again

> “Of course I miss her,” he said, and he blinked back tears from behind his thick glasses. “Not a day goes by I don’t think of her and wish things had gone differently.” The woman beside him squeezed his hand, and their eyes met for a moment, a small, sad smile crossing his face before he turned back to the camera. “What happened wasn’t her fault. She didn’t deserve…” He paused, jaw working for a moment, let out a small sigh. “She deserved better than she got.” - Daniel Hebert 

There was an unspoken tension in the air, back at home. I sat at the table, dad bustling around the kitchen, preparing dinner, neither of us wanting to break the silence. 

I would have gone upstairs, hidden myself in my room, tried and failed to distract myself with a book, but it felt important for me to be there with him, to not be alone. I caught him glancing at me every few minutes, my attention focused on my hands, the raw, pink skin scrubbed clean but still marked by my experience. 

Rather than dwell on it, I found myself getting up and setting the table instead, quietly shuffling around him in the slightly cramped kitchen, our shoulders brushing against each other. I remembered Mom, the way they would share the kitchen like this, enjoying the closeness rather than being frustrated by it. The thought of her sent a pang through my heart, but it… didn’t shut everything down, this time. I just let it sit there, that mourning, that ache, and tried to focus on what it meant. How it couldn’t be there if I didn’t love her so much. How I was glad to have that memory, that mental image of her and Dad, smiling at each other in the kitchen, so peaceful and happy. How she was still with us, that way, in the little memories, the small details, the way we kept her in our hearts so she never truly left. Gone, but not forgotten. 

I startled a little at Dad’s hand on my shoulder, but didn’t resist as he pulled me into a tight hug. It was only when I felt the dampness on his shirt that I realized I was crying. 

“I miss Mom,” I mumbled into his shoulder, and he only tensed for a moment before squeezing me tighter. 

“Me too,” he replied. He sighed, a quiet rise and fall. “She would know what to do about this whole... “ He struggled for a moment to find a word, then settled on, “Mess.” 

A few more heartbeats passed, then we broke apart, him tending to the pan hissing on the stove, me to finishing setting the table, the soft _thump_ of plates on tablecloth. The silence felt less oppressive, some of the walls between us… not broken down, really, but at least sidestepped, thanks to Mom. 

I looked up at him from the table as he finished plating the simple stir-fry. We hadn’t really talked about Mom, much… at all, really, since she passed. It was too raw, too painful. We had each withdrawn, from each other and the world, and even if it was understandable, it was… it was a damn shame. I noted some resentment there, in my feelings—blaming him for abandoning me, in his grief. I felt it, but didn’t let myself give it weight. Yes, he could have done better. In fact, I would insist he did, from now on. But I could forgive him. We could work through this. Together. 

It took a few minutes before the conversation started up again. I could see the frustration building in him, the tension in his shoulders, the death grip he had on his fork, but his voice was measured when he asked, “Taylor, what happened today?” 

My immediate instinct was to shut him down. To say only enough to get him off of my case—it wasn’t like there was anything he could do to help, even if he had _tried_. 

Then, with a deep breath, I considered the situation from an outsider’s perspective. How could I expect anything to change if I wasn’t willing to give him a chance? He wasn’t a terrible father—not cold, abusive, or even negligent, really. Just overwhelmed and blind. If I explained, if I didn’t let myself compartmentalize everything and let him into my life, even if all he could realistically do was to offer emotional support… wouldn’t that be better than nothing? 

I couldn’t imagine him hearing what I had been going through and blaming me for it, or running off to do something stupid and making it worse, somehow. He would be angry—he _should_ be angry—but I felt safe that he wouldn’t turn that anger towards me. And, who knew? Maybe he could offer me some kind of help I hadn’t considered. 

That said, it took more than mere logic to override years of mental conditioning and a familial relationship so deep in a rut it might as well have been at the bottom of the Grand Canyon. I took measured breaths, counting them in, holding, and letting them out. Surprisingly, even though I could see his grip on his fork turning his knuckles white at first, he did the same. Matched my calming breaths one for one, until his grip loosened and he just waited, expectant. Open. 

The words emerged slowly, like pulling teeth. “Dad, there’s some things I haven’t been telling you,” I admitted, my voice small. He slowly reached out his hand until it rested on mine. Quietly encouraging. 

“I’m listening, kiddo,” he said, and met my eyes with a small, supportive smile. 

It wasn’t easy, and it wasn’t straightforward, but in the end I told him the truth. About Emma, and the bullying. About the living hell that had been school. About the escalating “pranks” until the one that had me trapped in a metal box, covered in fetid waste, ignored. His anger was visible, but didn’t make me feel unsafe—I knew every ounce of his fury was directed at those who had hurt me, and at those that stood by and did nothing. 

He asked questions, and I did my best to answer them. He was surprisingly insightful, prodding gently at the edges of my experience without making me uncomfortable, and pulling away immediately when he sensed that boundary. His grip on my hand was an anchor, a solid weight keeping me from drifting away. 

In the end dinner had gotten cold, forgotten. We sat in silence, and I felt… drained, but in a good way. My burdens lightened, somewhat, in the sharing. 

“You’re not going back there,” he said, in a tone that brooked no argument or doubt. I was going to protest anyway—I had some idealized picture of resistance in my mind, that dropping out would mean they had “won” in some way—but even before the words left my mouth I realized just how stupid that was. As the wise man said: _to suffer unnecessarily is masochistic rather than heroic_. What would I gain? What would it prove? What did it matter, that I could endure suffering their abuse for nothing but… what? Misguided pride? 

“I don’t think Mom would be happy with me dropping out,” is what I said instead. Instead of feeling guilt at bringing her up again so soon after the last time, we shared a small, sad smile. Progress. 

“We’ll figure something out. We can look into getting you your GED. You’re certainly smart enough.” 

We promised to look into it later. Tomorrow. Then, both of us exhausted but happier and closer than we had been since Mom’s passing, we watched a movie together on the couch. One of her favorites. It was like she was there with us, in some small way. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Having the benefit of therapy doesn't mean you don't have negative thoughts or impulses. It doesn't mean you can't mourn, or make stupid choices. But it does mean you have the perspective, coping mechanisms, and positive thought patterns to notice those thoughts and deal, to try to change behaviors that don't help you. 
> 
> Everyone needs therapy, folks. Everyone. 
> 
> Not every therapist is great, not every therapist is right for everyone. But if you find one that clicks, or a parahuman ability that skips all the time, effort and money true therapy requires... fucking go for it.


	3. Once More, With Feeling

> “I feel like it’s important I share my experience. To let others know that you… you don’t have to suffer alone. That it’s okay to trust other people with your problems. If I’d known then what I know now…” She smiled, a little sadly. “Well, everything would be different, wouldn’t it?” - Emma Barnes 

Of course, they couldn’t let me go that easily. 

I wasn’t sure how they had even known I was coming in to get the withdrawal paperwork from the front office; perhaps they had lackeys watching the halls, and had coordinated excuses out of class just so they could confront me one last time. A bit excessive, but when were they anything but? 

“What’s the matter, Taylor? Dropping out over a harmless little prank?” Emma’s lips twisted into a pitying smirk. “Your mother would be _so_ disappointed.” 

I looked at Emma in the quiet hallway, empty but for her self-satisfied grin and Sophia’s looming presence. It was quiet, in the middle of class, no one else in sight. I clutched the paperwork in one hand, sharpening the creases where I had folded it, and just… _looked_ at her. Tried to see through the pointlessly hurtful words, the deliberate and causeless intent to harm, the sheer spiteful malice behind her stupid little barbs. Was there an answer in her flawless makeup, in her carefully curated outfit? The facade she presented to the world, a truly petty queen in her tiny little court. Did all of this _matter_ to her? 

The words hurt, of course. Another cut among thousands, it still drew blood, figuratively speaking. Each word was specifically chosen to elicit the most pain, frustration, anger and betrayal from every syllable. It just felt so _stupid_ , so meaningless. I would walk out of this building and never have to see her again. What was one more insult, in the face of that infinite possibility? 

Apparently my silent regard wasn’t the answer she was looking for. At an unspoken signal, Sophia pressed the attack, in her brutish, thug-like way. “You tried to get us in trouble. We’re being watched, now, because _you_ were keeping disgusting things in _your_ locker.” She sneered at me, leaning closer, getting into my personal space. “Snitches get stitches.” 

At that, my eyebrows raised. Being watched? Clearly they weren’t, if they were skipping class to harass me. And trying to claim I… what, pushed _myself_ into my own filthy locker? Like I had somehow… dear god, it was _absurd_. 

I couldn’t help it. I laughed. A little chuckle of sheer disbelief, like she had just claimed she had arm-wrestled the Simurgh and won. 

That was _definitely_ not the response they were hoping for. Sophia’s face twisted into a snarl, her fists clenched at her side, but it was Emma who stepped up close, spitting words. “You don’t get to laugh at us, you pathetic _freak_.” 

And then she slapped me. Having been shifted on my back foot and caught by surprise, I flailed a bit before landing on my butt on the hallway floor, paperwork accidentally crumpling in my hand as I leaned backward onto my elbows. It was more surprising than painful—it had always been Sophia who was the physically violent one, and, in all honesty, Emma wasn’t very good at it. Even she seemed shocked at herself, her eyes wide, her body briefly frozen, as though the impact of her hand on my face had rattled her own bones. 

For a long moment we stayed there, a tableau of pointless teenage drama. 

And… and then Emma started crying. 

At first it was silent, tears streaming down her face, eyes wide. Then the sobs began, deep heaving breaths that shuddered and gasped, and she collapsed onto her knees, reaching— 

I scrabbled back, but she was faster, and— 

And for the first time since before summer camp, _she hugged me_. Tightly, fiercely, as though I would slip from her grasp—which, had I not been too stunned to move, I would have at least tried. 

“I’m—oh god, Taylor, I’ve been— _I’m so sorry_.” 

I… what. Just… _what_? 

Between hiccuping sobs, she babbled words at me, almost too fast to understand, warped by her crying to near incomprehensibility. “I’ve been so _stupid_ and _mean_ and none of it was your _fault_ and you’ve just been taking it and I was so horrible to you just because of my own problems and if I’d just _talked_ to you you would have been there for me but instead I—oh god, so much time wasted and and and—” 

Her makeup was running down her face, mascara ruined, and somehow that seemed even more absurd to me than this whole rambling apology. Her flawless makeup, always so precise, all that practice like she’d shown me when we were younger, and here it was just _ruined_. And she didn’t seem to care, squeezing me tighter and practically squealing her frantic pleas for forgiveness into my ears… 

I looked up helplessly at Sophia, of all people, wondering what was going on. 

She seemed just as confused, but, being Sophia, immediately turned to violence to solve her problems. Roughly, she grabbed the back of Emma’s sweater, nearly tearing it as she pulled her off of me with a forceful heave, sending her sprawling. 

Without even checking on her, Sophia crouched down beside me, snarling, “What the hell did you do to her!?” 

Before I could even try to answer, she reached out and grabbed the front of my hoodie, her other hand reared back, fist clenched, prepared to punch me for whatever insanity had struck her friend, my old friend... 

And then she froze. Just for a moment, her eyes losing focus, her breath catching in her throat. Just like Emma had. Something strange was happening, but I couldn’t even begin to imagine _what_. 

Bracing her feet, she _yanked_ us both to standing, the knuckles of her left hand digging into my chest where her fist was wrapped tightly around fabric. Her expression was… calculating, in a word. The fury had been smothered, only a determined grimace on her face. She let go of my jacket, and I stepped back a foot, wary, more than a little confused. 

She looked down at her hand like it belonged to someone else, turning it over, staring at the knuckles, calloused fingers. Then she looked up at me, eyebrows furrowed, lips pursed in a tense scowl. 

“You done fucked up, Hebert.” 

I just gaped like a fish at her, mouth opening wordlessly, then closing again. What had happened? 

Sophia’s scowl deepened, looking between me and Emma, who was sitting on the ground, arms wrapped tightly around herself, tears still streaming, nose sniffling, but at least no longer babbling. Sophia took in a deep breath, letting it out through her nose, almost a snort. “I… I’ve got some thinking to do.” Her right hand, no longer clenched as a fist, instead jabbed an index finger at me accusingly. “Don’t think I’m just giving you a free pass for this. Master powers are serious fucking business, and I don’t appreciate you using yours on us. No matter what it…” She trailed off, breaking off her intense stare to look at her own feet. 

...Master power? Used on them? “What the _hell_ are you talking about?” I took another step back, hoping the insanity wasn’t contagious. I didn’t have any _powers_. I couldn’t breath fire or read thoughts or make jetpacks. I couldn’t even keep from getting beat up by my highschool bullies! 

Her eyes leapt to mine again, laser-focused. Her lips twisted again into a familiar sneer, but somehow one with less malice than I was so used to seeing. “Don’t give me that bullshit.” She gestured at Emma, still quietly hiccupping from residual sobs. “You did that.” 

She gestured at herself, the motion sharp, aggressive. “You did _this_.” 

She pointed a finger at me again, but not getting within reach this time. “You couldn’t have done this to, _I don’t know_ , the largest fucking Neo-Nazi organization in the country? Use your power to _actually make a difference_ , you fucking idiot, before you’re caught and never get the chance.” 

Sophia shifted again until one palm was against her forehead, muttering to herself. I couldn’t quite make out the words, but it sounded something like ‘reporting this’, and I didn’t… I couldn’t… 

I turned and ran, leaving my former best friend staring off into space and my biggest bully talking to herself in the empty school hallway. Somehow, against all odds, I had managed to hold onto the withdrawal papers. 

Dad was waiting in the car, engine idling. His eyebrows raised in concern as he saw me sprinting back to the car, climbing in and slamming the door behind me as though to shut out the insanity away from me, where it belonged. 

“What’s wrong? What happened?” He reached out a hand to my shoulder, and I almost flinched away… 

But I couldn’t hurt him. He was my _dad_. We were reconnecting, after all this time… 

After… 

Oh, shit. 

“Dad,” I said quietly, thoughts spinning a thousand miles an hour. “I think I might have superpowers.” 


	4. And It Opened Up My Eyes

> “I don’t begrudge people for knowing my background. That’s part of the fairy tale, after all. A couple of reformed supervillains, paying their debt to society.” He smiled, flashing brilliant white teeth, exuding charisma. “It’s important to know where you came from.” - Victor 

“You’ve got your pepper spray?” Dad asked me for the tenth time. In lieu of answering, I patted it in its holster on my belt. He nodded, still concerned. Rather understandably, considering the circumstances. Swallowing, he then asked, “And you have your cell phone?” 

I nodded silently. That had almost been as hard a conversation as anything else, all things considered. Trauma didn’t just _go away_ because you had superpowers. Not even mine. But at least they helped… put things into perspective, at least. Mom would rather us be safe _with_ cellphones than at risk _without_. Well. More at risk, anyway. 

He sighed, then smiled reassuringly, only a little forced. “I’ll be just down the block. If you have any doubts, any fears at all, call me and I’ll be outside in a heartbeat, alright?” 

“Thanks, Dad.” I reached over the center console of the car and hugged him, which he returned fiercely, squeezing the air out of my lungs. I didn’t mind. Taking one last deep breath, I opened the car door and immediately heard the rhythmic pounding of some kind of European metal music echoing through the crisp night air. It grew louder as I approached the warehouse, trying not to let my doubts show in my steady, measured steps. Shoulders back, head high. Like I belonged here. 

_I most definitely did not belong here_. But, being white, the bouncer barely gave me a second glance before waving me inside, where the throbbing bass and growling vocals coming from the speakers were nearly overwhelming. I stood there for a moment, taking in the sights of the rally—rough concrete floors, bare metal walls, haphazard lights mounted to the ceiling next to the speakers, a stage taking up the far wall and dozens and dozens of white supremacists loitering about, drinking and talking like it was just another backyard barbeque. I even recognized some of them—students at Winslow, eager to fit in with their community, cheerfully bearing the fascist kipple of a failed, diseased empire. 

Moving deeper inside before newcomers pushed me aside—or I lost my nerve—I tried not to think about how I was actually following Sophia’s advice, of all people. Or how Dad, after some convincing, only had to make three phone calls to find an Empire rally that same night. Or what that said about the state of the Bay, or the country. 

Instead I set my shoulders, held my head up high, and _did_ something about it. 

...By ‘accidentally’ nudging and brushing past everyone I could as I made my way around the crowd. 

Now that I knew what to look for, the signs of my power—and how strange a thought was _that_ —were readily apparent. Little gasps, suddenly tense muscles, an unfocusing of the eyes and briefly slackened jaws—quickly erased, leaving only mixed expressions in their wake. Depending on how good of an actor they were, I supposed, or how deep they were in the ‘movement’, reactions varied. 

Some people made their excuses, quietly slipping out the side door. 

Others, usually small groups I’d edged past, started hushed conversations, eyes darting around the room. None followed me, thankfully enough. 

Some just bore expressions of faint confusion, or consternation, glancing around like they were wondering just _how_ exactly they had ended up rooting for the losers of World War 2. Ontological inertia, sunk cost fallacy or cognitive dissonance kept them in place, I supposed. Some of the conversations I overheard through the pounding metal music seemed like intense discussions on how to have difficult talks with friends or family members, which I did not envy. I’d had enough of those recently, albeit with a very different purpose. 

Frankly, that should have been enough. I had proved beyond a reasonable doubt that I did have powers; that they did work on even the most irredeemable of philosophies; that I could, in fact, make a difference. I should have followed some of those awakened ex-Nazis out the door and called Dad over for a ride home. 

But then I saw a couple of people in costume hanging out in the corner, and… well. I discovered I was not immune to making stupid teenager decisions. 

A woman in a skintight red bodysuit with a black symbol on the front was leaning close and whispering to a man with a red v-neck and a black breastplate. His eyes scanned the room far too intently for my tastes, and I almost bailed, but then his eyes settled on me and I froze mid-approach. Had he figured it out? What were his powers? Or hers, for that matter? _Hell, this really was a stupid idea_. 

He then took the decision out of my hands by giving me a disconcertingly warm smile and striding confidently in my direction, the woman quickly falling into step behind him and off to the side. Before I could turn or make up some kind of excuse, he held out his hand for me to shake, making strong and deliberate eye contact. 

“Welcome! You’re an unfamiliar face—always good to see newcomers to the cause. I’m Victor, and this—” he gestured at the woman beside him with his left hand “—is Othala. What’s your name?” 

“I, uh.” I froze, unsure of what to do next. His hand was _right there_ , but he was a _cape_. What if he could, I don’t know, set me on fire with a touch? I didn’t think there was anyone like that in the Empire, but they had dozens of capes, and I _really_ should have done more research before coming here, _this was a mistake_ — 

I shook his hand, and it felt unyielding. He didn’t try to crush my hand or anything, but his skin felt unnaturally resistant, like his body was made of steel. Did he have super toughness of some kind? Regardless, his expression slackened for a fraction of a second—fast enough I wasn’t sure if it was from my power or not—and then his smile returned in full force. 

“Don’t be shy. I know we can be intimidating, but we’re brothers and sisters in arms here, mask or no mask.” With a smooth movement, he shifted the woman—Othala—out from behind him and practically shoved her towards me. With only a brief glance his way, she held out her hand as well, and I took it without thinking. She did show the usual signs of my power, followed immediately by turning to Victor in a wordless, wide-eyed stare. 

He nodded, and his smile shifted into something more intense, from warm to determined. 

I had had enough of stupid decisions for the night. “So nice to meet you, but I’ve got to—my dad’s waiting and—” 

Before I could awkwardly shuffle away, he grabbed my wrist. Not tightly, but just as unyielding as before. “Nonsense.” His smile widened, his gaze focused on my eyes. “There are friends of ours you really _have_ to meet.” 

Othala nodded, her voice reassuring as she added, “I’m… I’m really glad you joined us. But I do think you should have worn something a bit more… _formal_.” While I tried to figure out what she meant—and I internally debated gnawing off my wrist to escape his grasp—she reached into a pouch on her hip, pulled out a small black length of thin material, and pressed it into my hand, the one Victor was holding. He let go of my wrist, and I looked down to see a… domino mask? 

He gestured encouragingly, hand to face, and I mirrored the movement, finding the little self-adhesive tabs at the edges and—with only some adjusting around my glasses—managed to fix it in the right place around my eyes, over the bridge of my nose. Both of them seemed a bit relieved once I had it in place. 

I struggled to follow what exactly had happened. Was this some kind of cape secret handshake? Did I just get inducted into a secret society? 

...Crap, had I just joined the Empire? 

“We’ll need something to call you, of course,” Victor said, having shifted to my side without me realizing it, one hand placed immovably on my shoulder in a loose but irresistible hold. His tone was still friendly, a hair below shouting thanks to the still-roaring metal music blaring from the speakers, but there was an undercurrent of something I couldn’t figure out beneath it. Warning? Encouragement? 

I looked to Othala, of all people, for support or explanation, and she just flanked me on the other side of Victor, aiming me towards the stage where… 

_Oh, no._

There were three more costumed people stepping in from a room in the back. A man in a tiger mask, shirtless, chains wrapped around his arms; a shorter woman, hair buzzed close, wearing something like a birdcage on her head; and a man even I could recognize as Hookwolf, rough metal wolf mask perched on his face, greasy blond hair draped over his bare shoulders, hands raised high in greeting to the crowd, which roared its welcome. 

“You got most of the room pretty quickly. Is there a limit, or…?”  
  
It took me a second to realize Victor was asking me a question. A question about my power. And then a second more to realize he and Othala were herding me through the crowd—the unpowered members making way for the two—no, _three_ —masked capes. Every shuffled step drew me closer to the newly arrived Empire capes, each a known killer or visibly dangerous supervillain. 

They noticed us approaching, eyes turning to face us as I was drawn inexorably through the crowd, and I had the equally useless thoughts of _I wonder if my pepper spray is going to help_ and _I’m so incredibly screwed_ — 

And then Glory Girl smashed through the ceiling. 


	5. Girl, Interrupted

> “I can’t imagine a more horrible violation of my personhood,” she said, her voice flat, monotone. “It doesn’t matter what she intended. What she did was wrong.” - Victoria Dallon 

Everyone’s eyes snapped upward to the sound of breaking glass and the sudden wave of panic rushing through the room. This was Glory Girl, the avenging angel of New Wave, indestructible and unstoppable. 

And she just punted Hookwolf _through a wall._

She floated there for a moment, hovering menacingly, one fist nestled in her other hand, eyes scanning the crowd. For a fraction of a second the crowd, capes and unpowered people alike, froze in terror. I couldn’t help but stare, cringing from her scowl as badly as I did any of Sophia’s attempts at intimidation, framed in a golden halo of blond hair, her tiara jutting spikes, her white costume untouched by the broken skylight, skin without bruise or scratch. 

There was no speech. No further posturing. Her gaze passed Victor, hesitated the tiniest bit on me, then focused on Othala. The only hint of her intentions was the minute narrowing of her eyes, and then an instant before a distortion in the air from the tiger-masked supervillain passed through where she had been, she was inches away, fist in Othala’s stomach, sending her flying through the air into the crowd. 

I gasped. One second Othala had been there, a hand on my shoulder, urging me forward—the next she was sent soaring, ragdolling backwards to tumble into the mob. 

My hand reached out—for her, or for Glory Girl, I wasn’t sure, the movement was so reflexive—and Glory Girl darted away, backhanding away my touch like parrying a sword, bruising my wrist with the casual display of super strength. Even as I clutched it to my chest, though, eyes still wide at her unnaturally frightening scowl, at her terrifying display of strength and speed, I could see her expression slacken briefly as my power took hold… 

And then she screamed—a wild, furious roar—as she lunged towards _me_. 

There was no shame in admitting I panicked, then. Just tensed up, hands covering my face, flinching for the blow and being both unsurprised and disappointed that nothing stopped her in time. I felt her fist in my stomach like a cannonball, doubling me over and leaving me breathless, and I may have vomited a little—but then my teeth slammed together, tasting blood as I bit the end of my tongue, as she followed up with a furious uppercut to my jaw. Two or three more punches or knees ensued—I was too blinded by agony and panic to tell—before something exploded overhead and Glory Girl zipped away, leaving me gasping and heaving on the ground, mouth full of copper, body screaming in pain at the sudden assault. 

Hands dragged me away, but I couldn’t tell whose. Someone new, judging by the iron grip and the tiny pause after they touched me, before they continued pulling me from where I lay curled up in a ball. I saw flashes of metal, heard the sound of knives sliding on knives, but couldn’t piece together the details. There were lights and shadows barely visible through my tears, lots of screaming, the tearing of metal and the rumbling of bone-shattering impacts shaking the floor beneath me, a press of bodies and a cool, trembling hand on my forehead… 

The cessation of pain was almost as shocking as the pain itself. It wasn’t immediate, but the tingling that filled my body untwisted the knot of pain that was my stomach, my jaw, my wrist, my ribs. I felt the bones flex in my chest, my breath gasping but then relieved as every movement stopped being agony. The strangest was the tip of my tongue growing back inside my mouth, jagged flesh sealing over until I could barely tell I’d been hit at all. 

I opened my eyes to see Victor standing protectively over me, Othala—bruised and leaning heavily on him—pulling back her hand, eyes full of concern. “Are you alright?” 

The sound of fighting had faded. How long had it been? Minutes? Seconds? The concrete was cold beneath my back, and I could hear people shouting, feet running, the distant sound of sirens. I flexed my jaw, felt only a little bit of pain, still receding. “Yes… what happened?” 

Her smile was warm, lighting up her face in relief. “I hit you with regeneration.” She winced, her hand going back to her ribs, and I grimaced in sympathy. Why didn’t she use her power on herself? Was it because she was using it on me? “Another thirty seconds and I’ll have to go tend to the other wounded… but I had to make sure you’re okay. We owe you so much, and there’s still more good you can do for the… the Empire.” 

Something in the way she said that eased the sinking feeling I _had_ accidentally joined the Neo-Nazi organization. She murmured something to Victor, who nodded and helped me to my feet. I tensed, waiting for the pain that turned out to be far less than I expected, and looked around. We were in a back area behind the stage, a temporary office made with thin walls that did little to muffle the sounds of pain from Glory Girl’s victims. I could see the door behind me, and after a few more steps and some more of that lingering tingling feeling in my knees, I could walk unaided. 

Victor patted me on the back, reassuring, and flashed me another disconcertingly charismatic grin before pressing a business card he’d pulled from somewhere into my hand, closing my fist around it. “Call us soon, please. There are still those _friends_ we want you to meet, after all.” 

He peeked his head out through the back door first, glancing around quickly. “Coast is clear, for now. Protectorate will likely be here very soon, so get going.” He paused. “Do you have some way of…”  
  
I was already pulling out my phone. Crap, two missed calls already. It rung again before I could even dial, and pressed the answer button, nodding at… well, nodding at the former Nazi supervillain who had just saved my bacon. Against a hero, no less. He nodded back, then he and Othala disappeared back into the fray, leaving me to slip out into the back alley, coordinating with Dad. 

We pulled away just as the Protectorate arrived in force, green and white lights flashing, streaks of light soaring overhead. Dad’s hands were white-knuckled on the steering wheel as we pulled away—I pulled off the domino mask before anyone noticed it—but it was a good five minutes of carefully inoffensive driving a hair under the speed limit before either of us spoke. Miles away, he pulled over into a parking lot, then turned his attention onto me like a spotlight. 

“Are you okay?” 

I wiped the blood off of my chin with the back of my sleeve, winced at it. It didn’t hurt, at least. I checked myself again, patted down the no-longer-broken ribs, gingerly touched my no-longer-bruised stomach. “I’m alright.” 

His explosive sigh of relief was a touch overdramatic, but under the circumstances I couldn’t fault him for it. Nor the bone-creaking hug he wrapped me in, or the way his voice shook when he expressed his gratitude that I was safe and unharmed. 

After a moment, he pulled away, eyes wet, but determined. “You’re grounded. Forever.” 

“...Yeah, that’s fair.” 


	6. Justify The Means

> “The PRT did the best they could with what information was available to them at the time,” she stated plainly. “No further comments.” - Chief Director Rebecca Costa-Brown 

**Director Emily Piggot**

“Armsmaster, report.” The director steepled her hands, leaning forward on her elbows on the crowded conference room table. It had been a late night, and while she was used to working while hooked up to her dialysis machine, it was neither comfortable nor sustainable long term. Her back ached, and from what she had heard in preliminary reports, her day wasn’t going to get any better. 

“The insider tipoff from a self-identified Empire member was legitimate, and we were able to field a team onsite within ten minutes.” Armsmaster, wearing parts of his backup armor—she recognized the differences in design, having seen them through PR and merchandising reports in passing enough—was sitting stiff at attention as he presented. His impassive expression flickered with a grimace. “Unfortunately, a classmate of Glory Girl’s messaged her around the same time, and she happened to be patrolling the area and responded before we were able. Despite her quick withdrawal, the warning she provided the gang was sufficient for their powered members to escape arrest.” 

Piggot nodded. “And she reported seeing this new Master at the rally.” 

He nodded back, confirming. With a gesture, the screen on one wall lit up, and the rest of the Protectorate capes turned to face it, in various states of alertness and attention. Morning meetings were always difficult, especially after late night sorties, but if she didn’t press them for details and reports quickly, the quality of information suffered. Thank god for coffee. 

The screen showed a teenage girl, likely a yearbook picture. Long dark brown hair, glasses, the name “Taylor Hebert” laid out beneath it. Next to that, there were pictures of her covered in what looked like dried blood, apparently submitted as evidence in a police case that had crossed her desk just before this meeting, flagged by a routine scan for certain names… in this case, Sophia Hess. 

Armsmaster continued, painting an unpleasant picture of a prolonged bullying campaign culminating in what was in all likelihood a trigger event and a brand new supervillain Master. Who, true to form, used her new powers on her aggressors at the earliest opportunity. 

The degree and scale of her observed ability, however, was chilling. 

“At twenty-two-hundred last night—within thirty minutes of Miss Hebert, temporarily classified “Perspective”, having incited the incident at the Empire rally—Shadow Stalker submitted herself for Master/Stranger screening under what she claimed was her own accord after interacting with the new cape. While her memories were deemed intact, her opinions on them as well as her general outlook were… strongly influenced.” 

“In what way?” Miss Militia asked, her brows furrowed in concern. 

“Guilt,” Armsmaster replied. It made sense to the director, in a way, even if freshly-triggered capes typically found more _aggressive_ ways of dealing with their former bullies. “Shadow Stalker expressed feelings of remorse at both her overuse of violent force in apprehending criminals as well as her contribution to the prolonged bullying campaign that led to Perspective’s alleged trigger event.” He shifted in his seat. “She also wished to express her apologies to the rest of the Wards for her uncalled-for aggression in her interactions with them in the past, and seemed resigned to having to work for forgiveness, in all cases.”  
  
The looks around the table were a mix of incredulous and worried, for good reason. Regardless of how benign the changes appeared, all powers were weapons. There was likely some other factors at play that made the effects dangerous, controlling, or otherwise threatening. If nothing else, the abrupt change to Stalker’s personality was terrifying in and of itself—the idea that one’s identity and values could be switched around with nothing more than a light touch made Perspective a grave threat. Probably even more depending on long-term observation of the results on Stalker and if there were other varieties of effects that may manifest themselves later. Police reports from at least half of the recovered unpowered Empire gang members expressing guilt, shame, and severely altered values didn’t help. 

It did her no favors that the director’s thoughts were drawn to the Simurgh, who could turn people into time bombs months or even years after exposure to her power. 

“Current expected threat ratings are Master eight with a human slash Striker three subrating,” Armsmaster concluded, pausing for questions. It didn’t take very long. 

“What about Glory Girl?” Battery asked. There were other nods around the table, also interested. 

Armsmaster frowned slightly beneath his visor. “She has declined more thorough screening, but described similar results to Shadow Stalker. An increased awareness of previous faults, heightened empathic responses. Strangely, she demonstrably experienced no limits as far as behaviors towards the Master herself.” That drew some curious glances, and he elaborated. “She fought Perspective aggressively, with no further activations of her power as far as she could ascertain, and managed to deal moderate injuries without noticing any influences discouraging those attacks.” 

“She got the crap kicked out of her by GG, you mean?” Assault interjected, one eyebrow raised. “Even after hitting her with her power?” 

Velocity chimed in, thinking along those same lines. “Don’t mental Masters normally have things in place to prevent their victims from hurting them?” 

The director nodded, speaking up before Armsmaster did. “From all evidence, she triggered less than forty-eight hours ago. She may not have proper experience implementing those safeguards, or was attacked too quickly to order Glory Girl to stand down.” At least the hot-headed girl had done _something_ right. Masters and Thinkers were always top battlefield priorities. 

Armsmaster cleared his throat. “Thanks to Stalker’s information, we know her place of residence and can have a team pick her up as soon as one is approved. She cannot be allowed to continue Mastering people, especially with how aggressively she’s sought villainous allies. Her presence at the Empire rally was a clear indication of her ambitious intent, and the only thing the city needs less than another Empire cape is another Empire Master.” 

“Hold on, let me get this straight,” Assault interjected, pausing his statement with a jaw-splitting yawn which nearly had her follow suit. “She’s grown Stalker a conscience, rehabilitated Nazis, and ran rather than fight Glory Girl, despite getting the stuffing beat out of her. Why aren’t we giving this girl a medal and a recruitment speech?” 

“We don’t currently know the full effects of her power,” the director answered, “which she has already used on a Ward, in her civilian identity. Who was her highschool _bully_ and possible cause of her trigger, making recruitment… difficult, should this come to light.” Not to mention a PR nightmare. “What’s more, her first public efforts were with an Empire rally, where she was witnessed being protected and sheltered by supervillains she had allegedly only just met.” She swept her gaze across the collected heroes, meeting their eyes in turn, reading their reactions as she delivered her verdict. “While bringing her into the fold is not an undesirable result, the first priority here is to contain her. _Before_ we have a home-grown Heartbreaker on our hands.” 

That sobered the room quickly, despite the residual early morning drowsiness. Aside from a few pursed lips and furrowed brows, she saw no active dissent with her evaluation. After a moment, she nodded. “We know where she lives. Send in a team to watch her home, bring her in once we’re sure we can do so safely. I am also escalating M/S alertness to fuschia.” 

There were a few groans from the usual suspects at the prospect of additional passwords and verification steps, but once again no one objected. Good. One Ward down, with possibly life-altering Master effects, and several members of the Empire likely afflicted as well; this was turning out to be a right clusterfuck. 

Emily hated Masters, and she’d be damned before she let one run roughshod over _her city_. 


	7. The Power of Powerpoint

> “At a different point in my life, I would have told you that your wife was cheating on you.” She grinned. “After meeting _her_ , though, I’ll just let you know you should probably surprise her with flowers. Tonight.” She winked. “You’ll thank me later.” - Tattletale 

I had fallen into a pattern: Read a page of my book. Subconsciously touch my ribs, or my wrist, or my stomach, or my jaw, expecting pain that wasn’t there. Try to focus on my breathing, on the feel of the book beneath my fingertips, of the worn fabric of the sofa, the hum of the heater, the taste of the now-cold tea on my lips. Realize I hadn’t actually absorbed any of the words on the page. Start over. 

Repeat. 

Dad was at work, and I was both withdrawn from Winslow—the paperwork was in the mail because like hell was I going to risk running into Sophia or Emma again—and grounded for life. I couldn’t even really argue with that last bit, because what I had done was, after all, _incredibly_ stupid. The fact that I’d gotten away without permanent harm didn’t change that fact. That, and I didn’t really have any friends I would be spending time with, anyway. 

That thought was discouraging, but I had my whole life ahead of me. Once I got my GED, I could start applying to colleges and meet people there. Or get hobbies. Book club, maybe. The point was, I might be a friendless loser at the moment, but I didn’t have to stay that way. And I was prepared to make the effort; it wasn’t like new friends just showed up at your doorstep— 

The doorbell rang. 

I put down my book, leaning over the edge of the couch to look. A package, maybe? I certainly wasn’t expecting visitors, and if Dad had left work early to surprise me he wouldn’t have used the doorbell. I’d just wait a few minutes and check to see if they left anything—the doorbell rang again. 

I wasn’t in the most dangerous of neighborhoods, but I made sure to grab my pepper spray just in case. Walking quietly on bare feet, still in my PJs since I didn’t have any plans of leaving the house, I leaned in close to the peephole and saw… a teenage girl, bundled up in a thick winter coat and scarf that was probably a bit excessive for the Bay, even in early January. She waved cheerfully after a moment; maybe I’d made more noise than I thought walking to the door. She didn’t seem dangerous, but I kept my hand on the spray anyway, just in case. After last night, I felt it was a reasonable precaution. I mean, I still had the card with _Victor’s_ number on it in the pocket of my jeans. 

Carefully unlocking the door, keeping most of my weight against it in case she tried to shove her way inside, I blinked at her owlishly, adjusting to the sunlight. “Hello?”  
  
“Hi! I’m going to be honest with you, I’m here to try to keep you from being arrested. Can I come in?” 

Wait, what? “I’m… I’m sorry?” 

She didn’t seem fazed by my confusion, just smiling brightly at me. “It’s okay, I forgive you. I realize it’s a bit sudden, but time is short and I want to give you my spiel before the PRT shows up. And I think you want to have this chat _inside_.” At my continued staring, she rolled her eyes. “I’m unarmed, and I’m pretty sure even you could arm-wrestle me and win. Plus”—she leaned in a bit closer, lowering her voice—“unlike Glory Girl, I don’t fly into a homicidal rage at the drop of a hat.” 

Oh. _Oh_. 

I pieced together the different parts of her pitch, and it painted an ugly picture. The word about last night had gotten out, and not only was Glory Girl not the only one who thought I had joined the Empire—instead of rehabilitating its members—but they knew where I lived _and were coming to arrest me_. 

Taking another look at her, realizing she was right on most observable counts, I opened the door and let her inside. She edged past, very careful not to touch me—I filed that tidbit for later—and when I peeked my head out I didn’t see any mysterious unmarked vans or people with binoculars hiding in the bushes. Which, admittedly, didn’t tell me much, but I had to at least check. 

“Thanks,” she said, pulling back her hood and unraveling her scarf. Her hair was shoulder-length, brown, and there were freckles on her cheeks and nose, but I didn’t think I’d ever seen her before. I opened my mouth to start drilling her for information, but she beat me to the punch. 

“Okay, so, long story short, you’ve attracted some attention yesterday, and the PRT has gotten the worst possible impression of your powers and intentions. I represent people who want to see if you’re as bad as they think you are, and offer you an alternative to prison, if you’re interested?” 

I gave her a flat look. 

She waved a hand dismissively. “Look, I know it sounds a bit too convenient to be true but they really are on their way soon—we could only delay them so much—and if all else fails you can always turn yourself in later, right?” She flashed me a grin, and I could almost hear the _ting_ as the light reflected off of her teeth. 

She reminded me of Emma. Too cute, too confident. The kind of smile that would promise all the good things in the world and stab you in the back the next day as soon as it was convenient. I must have let that thought show on my face, because her smile faltered before I could school my expression or revise my initial impression. 

“Oh, damn, they really worked you over good, huh. I’m sorry, I really am here to help. I—” 

I held up a hand to forestall any more of her pitch, and actually tried to think things over. I needed more time to actually consider what she was saying—and frankly, this whole ‘must act now!’ bit was feeling entirely too much like a high-pressure sales tactic. I needed to call Dad, I needed to get a second opinion, and I needed evidence. “Proof,” I said simply. “Proof or I’m kicking you out and/or calling the police on you as a home invader.” She’d proven she knew things, but that didn’t mean her offer of ‘help’ was in any way legitimate, and she certainly hadn’t provided me any reason to listen other than stating things I couldn’t confirm. 

She nodded, reaching into her coat, which she unzipped to reveal a manila envelope. “Of course, of course. That’s the sensible thing to ask, right?” She smiled, and I narrowed my eyes at her. Was she mocking me? Her smile faded again, and she blew out a quick sigh before walking over to the dining room table and spreading out the printouts and photos. I leaned over to look, and she shuffled over to the side, pointing to different sheets. 

“Here’s the after-action report from last night’s Empire raid. I’ve highlighted mentions of this mysterious new cape.” Her finger shifted to another page. “Here’s the signed authorization for a PRT strike force with cape backup, and the fake address I subbed in to give us a bit more time. Your name is accurate, though, so they’ll figure it out sooner than later.” Crap, it definitely did have my name there. But how did they… “And here’s the report from a certain highschool bully that outed you. That one was hard to get.” Her name was redacted, appearing as black blocks in the text, but I could tell from reading between the lines in the report that it was Sophia. That _bitch_. 

It all seemed disconcertingly official, with case numbers, formal language and consistent timestamps. It painted a very ugly picture, indeed—especially Glory Girl’s witness statement. She was very unhappy with me, and I spent a painstakingly long couple of minutes reading her description of my power from her perspective. It wasn’t as violent as Sophia had made it seem, but it still seemed apparently rather… jarring, to have your mind forcibly changed in an instant. 

All the while the brunette fidgeted, glancing at her watch, keeping just out of arm’s reach of me. Was she afraid of me? 

Regardless, while none of this was good news, it wasn’t reason enough for me to… “What do you want, anyway?” 

“Well, I’d like to sneak you out of here before the fuzz arrive, for one.” 

Uh huh. “Why, exactly?” 

Her expression sobered, smile vanishing. “I represent someone who would be interested in hiring someone of your particular talents. If my read on your power is right, you could be very useful in rehabilitating violent criminals, if nothing else.” 

Her read? “What are you reading about my…” God, it was still weird thinking about it, even if I had undeniable proof, both from last night and the words in black and white laid out on the scuffed dining room table. “My power?” 

She made a so-so gesture with one hand. “I’d have to see it in action firsthand, but from all the reports—and what my employer’s notes have told me about Empire movements since last night—it seems to be something like… instant therapy? It doesn’t erase things, affect memories, or change core identity, but it reprioritizes things, and nudges people in the direction of empathy, compassion and respect.” She shrugged, a bit of a smile sneaking on her face again. “I’ve seen weirder. Not every power has to hurt people. Some are better suited for support, like healers. Or Thinkers.” 

I narrowed my eyes at her again, considering. I held out my hand, stopping halfway between us, and she either had a really good poker face or genuinely believed my power wouldn’t hurt people, because she didn’t flinch. She didn’t reach for my hand, though, and she had studiously avoided physical contact so far… 

Instead she raised her hands in something like surrender. “Hey, no offense, but we’ve only just met. Buy a girl dinner before getting into her head first, yeah?” The grin on her lips seemed amused this time, just a bit nervous instead of overconfident, and it made her seem more human, less of a used car salesperson. “I’m hoping to see your power in action, but I wouldn’t make a terribly impartial observer if I was a test subject, right? Between my keen observational skills and the resources my employer can provide, we can test your power at least as good as any Protectorate jailer. But I am trusting you to not use it on me without my consent. _Should_ I trust you?” 

I thought of Glory Girl’s transcribed moral outrage and winced, lowering my hand. It had been an accident—I wouldn’t have used it on a _hero_ , even an incredibly violent and terrifying one, if I hadn’t had my life threatened first. This girl wasn’t claiming to be a hero, though—in fact, she and her mysterious ‘employer’ seemed keen on keeping me away from the heroes. That strike force authorization paperwork seemed pretty genuine, though... and fairly damning. 

While I thought, she pulled out her phone, and winced at a message on it. Tapping a few more buttons—her phone was much nicer than the basic model Dad and I had gotten—she pulled up what looked like a live dashcam video, holding it up for me to see. 

I recognized that convenience store; it was only a few blocks from my house. 

“I’m sorry to rush you, but it’s really now or never.” 

I took a look at the paperwork, then at the video on her phone, then down at myself. 

I reached a decision. 

“...Can I grab some clothes first?”  
  
“ _Hurry_.” 


	8. Must Love Dogs

> “She tried to help people. I don’t want to answer any more of your stupid questions.” - Rachel Lindt 

I juggled cell phones, one in each hand, while the girl drove. In my left, I could just see the tail of her inconspicuous coupe turning the corner in the distance while the dashcam slowed to a stop across the street and several doors down from my house. We had cut it close. 

In the other hand, I had Dad’s cell phone dialed and ringing. 

And ringing. 

And ringing. 

I was preparing in my head how I’d explain I’d just been maybe-kidnapped, maybe-rescued from the PRT when I heard the sound of him picking up on the other side. “Daniel Hebert speaking.”  
  
“Hey, Dad, it’s me.”  
  
“Taylor?” 

“Look, I know this is sudden, but—” 

“No, I haven’t heard from Taylor all day.”  
  
I paused. It was Dad’s voice, and the way he said my name sounded concerned, but his voice now was weirdly… casual? “Dad?”  
  
“Look, if this is about the PRT again—” My blood froze. The PRT? _Again_? “—you can tell them the same thing I told the agents squatting in my office.” _Oh crap_. “I haven’t seen her since this morning, and I’ll be sure to let you know if I hear from her.” 

“Dad,” I said hesitantly, my thoughts racing, mind reaching for something we’d discussed once. “If you can talk freely, say Mom’s full name. If there are people there with you, just say ‘everything is fine’.”  
  
“...Everything is fine.” 

Shit. They had gone after my _dad_. Out of the corner of my eye I could see the girl sparing concerned glances my way between looking at the road and the mirrors. I was suddenly very glad that I had taken her up on her offer. “Alright. I’m okay. It’s a lot to explain, but there was an... interested third party, and I’ve left the house. I’m safe.” For now. “I’ll keep in touch as much as I can.”  
  
“Mmhmm,” Dad said with a barely-contained tension in his voice. He was never the best actor, but damn if he wasn’t trying his hardest. “That sounds good. Yeah, keep me updated, okay? I’ll see what I can do on my end.” 

“I will, Dad. Thank you. I love you.”  
  
“Same to you.” 

I took a deep, shuddering breath when the line went dead, cradling my phone to my forehead and squeezing my eyes shut. What the hell had I gotten myself into? The government watching my house with orders to arrest me on sight—to foam or even _shoot_ me if I tried to run or to touch them—more agents harassing Dad, on the run with some strange girl with suspicious motives… 

“Lisa,” she said, and when I opened my eyes she was staring straight ahead, watching the road. Her expression was apologetic, sympathetic. “My name is Lisa.” 

“...Taylor.” But she already knew that. She already knew way more than she should. 

“I’m sorry about your dad, Taylor. But I’m sure he’ll be alright. Just watched for a while.” With one hand still on the wheel, her other reached up and pulled off her wig, revealing blond hair beneath. The scarf was still wrapped around her lower face, but I could just catch the edges of what was probably intended to be a reassuring smile. “We’ll head somewhere you can lay low for a bit, get all this sorted, alright?” 

“Sure,” I said distantly, mind still spinning. “That sounds good.” 

=== 

I was a bit concerned when Lisa—if that was even her real name—stopped the car in a run-down part of town, in an alleyway surrounded by abandoned warehouses and factories. She seemed to notice this, twisting to face me in the driver’s seat. “So, now that the urgent business is at least delayed, if not taken care of—there’s something you should know, before I let you into my little hideout.” 

I hadn’t spent the _entire_ drive reeling from the sudden changes in my life. I’d also spent some time considering what kind of ‘interested third party’ would want to recruit a Master from the clutches of the PRT, and was half-expecting what came next. She grinned as I braced myself, nodding slightly. “Yeah, you have a guess. I’m not exactly on the _heroic_ side of the cops and robbers game.” I exhaled through my nose, half-gratified, half-concerned. She continued, “But don’t get too stressed out about it—if you even still can.” What was that supposed to mean? 

“We—my team, and our boss—aren’t really supervillains in the sense you’re thinking. We’re not a gang, we hold no territory, and we don’t hurt people if we can help it.” I noticed that wasn’t saying they _didn’t_ hurt people, just that they tried not to. She seemed the type of genie where specific wording was important. “We’re pretty much just petty thieves, escape artists. Low profile, low stakes. Give the good guys something to chase after every once in a while between sex-slavers and Nazis, you know?” She shrugged, as if to say ‘no big deal’, but I had my reservations. Something told me they weren’t the Robin Hood variety of thief. 

I watched her, processing her admission, seeing if she was going to ask anything else. After a moment she tilted her head curiously. “Is that going to be a problem?” 

I said nothing for a few seconds, choosing my words carefully. “My alternative is a government agency that wants to imprison or kill me, and that is effectively holding my father hostage.” I shrugged with a bit more nonchalance than I felt. “I think I can deal with thieves.” 

She looked exceedingly pleased with herself. “Great! I hope you don’t mind if my teammates are in costume, though. You can never be too careful. Secret identities are a big deal, after all.” Then she winked, and before I could try to process what that meant, she was leading me out of the car and into the back door of a large red brick warehouse. Surprisingly, the door didn’t creak, despite looking old and nearly rusted shut. 

The ground floor didn’t look like much. Dusty machinery covered in tarps, and a rickety-looking iron spiral staircase that only groaned a little beneath my feet. The second floor, however, was a completely different story. Red brick walls and high ceilings framed an open living room area the size of the ground floor of my house by itself, with a pair of couches, a truly enormous television with electronics beneath and huge speakers beside it. Another section held a hallway and a series of rooms, and another held an open kitchen setup, but my eyes were drawn to the two men waiting on the couches. 

The taller was imposing, black motorcycle leathers and a skull-faced helmet. The shorter was the complete opposite, with a frilly shirt and a Venetian mask with a coronet built into it. They both turned to face the stairs as we climbed up, and I couldn’t help but feel a little intimidated at the casual display of supervillainy. Even if the Empire capes were far more frightening, there was something about seeing people in masks and knowing they had powers that still set the hairs on my neck rising. For the first time, I wished I had pulled on the domino mask the ex-Nazis had given me, just so I wouldn’t feel so exposed. 

I forced my breathing to steady, gradually slowing my racing heartbeat, as Lisa introduced the two. “Tall, dark and gloomy is Grue, the leader of the crew, and short, skinny and foppish is Regent, our comedic relief.” 

“Hello,” Grue said with a nod, and his voice had a creepy echo effect that only made his skull-faced helmet all that more menacing, despite his relaxed posture. 

“Sup,” Regent added, giving me a lazy wave with one hand, as though he were already bored of the introductions. 

“Uh, hi,” I said lamely, grabbing my elbow with one hand, shrinking into myself before catching it and deliberately standing a bit taller. First impressions mattered, and I wasn’t the same Taylor that got bullied in Winslow—I was, instead, an allegedly dangerous refugee from the law. 

That… didn’t have quite the reassuring effect I’d intended in my head, but Lisa bowed dramatically, one hand swept beside her like she was extending a curtsey, chiming back in with, “And I’m Tattletale, your host and noble knight to your distressed damsel. And we are, dramatic pause, the Undersiders!” She actually _said_ ‘dramatic pause’, there, which I couldn’t help but grin at. 

Turning to the others, she waved a hand my way and finished with, “Everyone, this is Taylor, tentatively named ‘Perspective’ by the PRT. Look, but don’t touch, until we figure out exactly how her power works and what it does.” 

Gesturing at me to follow, she led me to the couch, where—by dint of my power—I was afforded a whole one by myself, while Lisa plopped herself down between the two boys on the other couch. It made me feel bizarrely like I was at a job interview. 

The effect was only worsened by the powers talk. Grue made shadows, Regent made people slap themselves, and Tattletale was, allegedly, psychic. Which I had my doubts about. When Grue asked about me, I waited for Lisa to explain, but she nodded encouragingly my way, letting me speak for myself. 

“I suppose I… make people… better?” I hazarded. I’d had… mixed results, depending on who you looked at. Emma sobbed uncontrollably, Sophia had her barely suppressed anger, frustration and gratitude, Victor and Othala seemed thrilled, and Glory Girl seemed utterly furious. Dad seemed alright, though, and if my power worked on myself—which I suspected it did, considering how I felt around my bullies yesterday—it wasn’t normally that dramatic. 

When Grue tilted his head, I realized I should probably elaborate. “I make people consider what they’ve done wrong and try to do better, I guess. Guilt is a part of it. It’s… hard to explain, but I’m not controlling people or anything.” I rubbed my jaw, wincing at the memory of biting the tip of my tongue off. 

"Well, that's lame," Regent said casually. I kind of agreed with him, but I still felt the urge to defend my power. 

“I mean, the Protectorate wants to arrest or kill me for it.” 

“What, like that’s hard?” he retorted without hesitation. Between his tone and the tilt of his head, though, I got the impression it was supposed to be reassuring, in a sarcastic way? Despite myself, I found myself chuckling a little, appreciating his irreverence. It wasn’t so much disrespectful of me so much as it was… not taking things so serious, perhaps. Lisa, on the other hand, watched me closely again, in a way that was a little unnerving. 

There was an awkward silence before Lisa chimed in to add more detail. “Perspective here—can I call you Perspective?” I shrugged, so she continued, “She is effectively an instant conscience. Awareness of your wrongs and the drive to improve them, among other things. She apparently cleared out most of an Empire rally last night just by walking through the crowd.” 

Grue nodded approvingly, and Regent gave a low whistle, following it up with, “Side effects? How long does it last? What does it consider a ‘wrong’?” He placed a hand over his chest, the other palm out over his forehead, like he were swooning. “It wouldn’t turn us from this horrible, _terrible_ life of villainy, would it?” 

Those were… all good questions. Ones I didn’t have an answer for. “I… don’t know, to be honest.” I hedged my bets, tried to guess. “I don’t think there are any side effects, I haven’t had it long enough to know”—Grue seemed to wince at that, ducking his head in sympathy—“and I guess my power thinks being a Nazi is pretty bad?” 

“Well, duh,” Regent replied. “I’m sure it’ll think my puppy-kicking habit is pretty bad too.” 

“I wouldn’t joke about that in front of Bitch,” Grue said, in a way that didn’t seem to imply he was calling me that, so much as referring to someone else. 

Lisa confirmed it, explaining, “She’s our fourth teammate. Hellhound, if you want to be PC, but she prefers Bitch.” She waggled her hand a little. “She’s a little hard to get along with, but this is just temporary. You’ll be fine.” 

I let out a little sigh of relief at the reminder. I had just gotten used to thinking about the big picture, and the idea of all of my future plans evaporating didn’t sit well with me. Then there was a moment of confusion as a phone went _ding_ , and we all came to the eventual realization it was mine. Still unfamiliar with the idea, I pulled it out, unlocked it, and read the message. It was from Dad. 

“Alan gave me an earful, but he knows some specialists. I’ve made some calls and I may have a case against the PRT. Just need time. Keep in touch, Owl.”  
  
My eyes watered at the reminder of Mom’s childhood nickname for me, and I let Lisa read the message when she gestured for my phone in concern. Her smile was wide and confident. “Good news already! Aren’t you glad you came along with me?” Before I could give her my ambivalent answer, she pressed on. “Anyway, our boss can probably help as well. Give us a bit more data, maybe a few test clients, and he should be convinced enough to lend financial and legal support to your defense.” 

“Is this really something I can lawyer my way out of?” I asked, a bit doubtful. 

“Lawyers are modern wizards,” Lisa reassured me. “And the PRT is a slave to the media. Spin your case right, and you’ll be a free woman in no time.” That was a nice thought. I texted Dad back something neutral, acknowledging, with a promise—although light on details—that I was still safe. 

Down below, I heard the sound of the door opening again, and the sounds of… claws? Rapidly ascending the iron staircase. I turned over the couch to face that direction, on alert, but there were just three dogs happily racing through the loft, stopping near me to sniff me with curiosity. They were… kind of cute, in a slightly rough-and-tumble sort of way. They’d seen some bad days, considering the scars. I flinched back a little at their somewhat invasive interest, but they didn’t seem aggressive. 

“Brutus, Judas, Angelica, _heel_ ,” another girl’s voice called out, and the dogs bolted to the newcomer’s side in turn. A broad-shouldered woman with short brown hair in a green army jacket and jeans glowered at me, one hand absent-mindedly petting one of the dogs while the other two lingered nearby, waiting their turn for attention. 

“Bitch,” Grue called out, “you got our messages?” 

The previously mentioned fourth teammate scowled at him, but nodded. “A maybe guest. Yeah.”  
  
“Hi,” I said, and resisted the urge to flinch as her eyes narrowed at me aggressively. I met her gaze, trying not to let her think I was someone to be bullied—I wasn’t, not anymore—but that was apparently the wrong thing to do, because she was stomping towards me seconds later, getting all up in my face. 

“Bitch, wait—” Lisa called out, but she wasn’t listening. 

“The hell are you staring at me for?” Bitch snarled, teeth bared, eyes boring into my own, daring me to blink first. I didn’t know what the hell was this girl’s problem, but it reminded me entirely too much of Glory Girl. That unsheathed aggression, uncalled for fury, the unapologetic threat of bodily harm just for me _existing_. 

This time I didn’t wait for her to strike first. 

I slapped that Bitch right across the face. 

It… barely moved her head, but the _crack_ of the slap seemed to echo in the loft. I could hear the sharp intake of breath from Lisa behind me, could see Bitch’s eyes grow wide for a second, and then, preparing for a counterattack—this time without the benefit of a recently-converted Nazi supervillain’s healing powers—I braced myself for a punch… 

That never came. Bitch focused her eyes on me, taking in my posture, my determined stance, my clenched jaw—I only had to bite my tongue once, thank you very much—and then furrowed her brow in concentration. 

“Sorry,” she said quietly, almost begrudgingly. 

“Wait, _what_?” Regent muttered in disbelief on the other couch. 

Bitch squinted at him, irritated again, and he held his hands up in surrender. Turning back to me, she continued, her voice a lot softer and less aggressive than it had been. “I didn’t realize… sorry. You weren’t…” She gestured vaguely with two fingers, my eyes to her eyes, and seemed to chew on her words for a moment. “I misread. You okay?” 

Considering I’d just slapped a nearly-rabid supervillain and she just said sorry to me for it? “Yeah, I’m… I’m fine. Sorry for the—” 

She waved me off, seemingly irritated at my attempt to apologize. “S’fine.” She turned to her dogs, one of whom was staring up at her in concern, and she pet him, scratching him behind the ears. His eyes closed, the stub of his tail wagging his whole butt against the floor where he sat. Her gaze softened, and she said “Thanks” to me before turning away and heading to one of the rooms, her dogs following closely behind. 

There was a stunned silence in the room. Grue and Lisa were still standing where they had been prepared to intervene, but Regent was still reclined on the couch, leaning casually with one elbow on the armrest like he was watching television. 

He broke the silence first. “Well, _that_ just happened.” 

Grue looked between him, me, the retreating back of Bitch, and then finally at Lisa. She blinked rapidly a few times, a smile creeping onto her face, and she slowly agreed. “Yeah, it did.” Well, I supposed that was the demonstration she’d been looking for. 

As for me, as soon as the door closed behind Bitch, I winced and shook out my hand. That had _hurt_. 


	9. Flawless Delivery

> “Eh, she was alright.” - Regent 

Lisa was more than happy to explain my power to me and everyone who would listen. 

“It’s fascinating, really. It didn’t affect her memories, her skills, her allegiances or loyalties—she was still suspicious of you, still just as connected to her dogs, her power unaffected. What it did do was give her the equivalent of years of training reading human expressions and body language. Did you see her apologize?” Lisa’s enthusiasm seemed contagious to me, but Grue still seemed skeptical, and Regent appeared only mildly curious. “Apologies weren’t even in her _vocabulary_ before. They’re a very human thing. It still didn’t come naturally, but it looked like something she might have practiced in therapy for a long time to get right.” 

“...My power is therapy?”

“Pretty much,” Lisa confirmed, grinning. 

“Hit me,” Regent said, and all three of us turned to look at him. 

Lisa and I, at least, were visibly surprised. Grue was harder to read, still wearing his skull-masked helmet, but he added to the impression by saying, “Really? Just like that?” 

Regent shrugged casually. “Sure, why not. I’m already perfect, so I’m not worried.” He leaned over, turned his cheek, bracing the mask so it wouldn’t fly off if hit. “Come on, gimme a hit of that mindwhammy juice.” 

I checked in with Lisa, but we just ended up shrugging at each other. 

_Smack_. 

I was glad it didn’t seem to require actual skin contact, at least, because I didn’t want to do that again; my hand was starting to get sore. Regent, on the other hand, just blew out a little air through his nose, thoughtful, then leaned back into the couch, sprawling decadently once again. “Yeah, still perfect. A little… different. Things are a bit more… vivid, I guess? But I'm pretty sure I've got some brain damage from my family, so it seems a bit easier to handle but didn’t actually _fix_ anything.” 

Brain damage? What kind of family did he _come_ from? I thought about how my power seemed to work, and shook my head a little. “It's who you are, I guess. It works with what you've got.” 

Grue snorted, the sound a little echoey from his helmet. “Damn. I was hoping to get a new Regent.” 

Regent waved his hand dramatically in dismissal. “Bitch, I'm _flawless_.” 

“Someone call me?” Bitch shouted from one of the nearby rooms, the open ceilings carrying the sound easily. 

“Nah, you’re good,” Lisa called back, then paused, thoughtful. “She didn’t even sound angry!” She was grinning when she asked, “Alright, try ordering him around.” At my look, she added, “And you’ve got to mean it, too.” 

My mind blanked. What could I ask him to do? Dancing for my amusement seemed creepy, standing on his head could end badly depending on how acrobatic he was, and those were the most harmless things I could ask him to do before things headed into ‘prank’ territory, which I studiously avoided. Finally, I settled on looking at him, and in as firm a tone as I could manage, demanded… “Uh, hey Regent. Can you please get me a soda?” 

He thought about it for a moment, then gave a small wave my way. “Nah, get it yourself.” 

“Well, that answers that,” Lisa declared, grin growing even wider. I couldn’t help but feel good at her praise, and at the positive effects I was having on the Undersiders. I shouldn’t have been surprised, but it still caught me off guard when she then said, “Alright. I'm curious. I think I've got a solid enough grasp on your power now, and there are some things I wouldn't mind all that juicy introspection on while skipping all the hard work.” 

Unlike Regent, she just held out her hand, because she knew I didn’t _have_ to slap to make my power work. Which I appreciated, because my hand still throbbed a little. Still… “I can’t help but feel like I'm encouraging cheating, here.” 

She just waggled her fingers at me. “Hello? Supervilllain. Gimme.” 

I tapped her hand, and her eyes went comically wide for a moment, her jaw opening in shock. Then she blinked, looked down at her hand, and blew out a sigh. “Still ace. Good to know.” 

I wasn’t sure what she meant, but at least it didn’t turn her into a slobbering zombie or anything. Not that it did the last several dozen times that I was aware of, but… well, my powers were still new, I didn’t know anything for sure. 

She shifted into a thoughtful pose. Glanced at Regent, who met her eyes behind his mask, then gave her the smallest of nods. 

Together, in somewhat eerie unison, they both turned to Grue, who was just walking back from the kitchen with a soda, a straw clipped through the pop tab. He paused as they both stared at him. 

“ _Grue_ …” Lisa said, monotone. 

“ _Join us_ …” Regent added, almost droning.<br> <br> He tensed. “Uh. Guys?” 

" _Become one with the collective, Grue_." Lisa stood slowly, hands reaching up towards him, beckoning. 

" _Become one with the hive_.” Regent followed suit, head lolled to one side, the mask’s eyes fixed on their teammate. 

Meanwhile I was frantically tapping them on the shoulders to no effect. Not so much as a twitch. 

Grue backed up a step. I looked at him, helpless, starting to get very concerned. 

He lost his balance when his leg twitched, and he fell backwards into the kitchen. Lisa and Regent _lunged_. 

And then I went blind as a billowing cloud of utter darkness flooded the loft. It was disorienting, and I grabbed at the couch behind me just to ensure I hadn’t somehow been transported into the inky void it felt like. For several long seconds everything was silent, pitch-black, and utterly still. 

Then the darkness pulled away like a curtain, and the air was filled with the sound of Regent and Lisa laughing uproariously, clutching their stomachs and, in Regent’s case, flailing weakly as Grue put him in a headlock. 

Between complaints he cackled, “The look on your face! _Ow ow stop_ —" 

"Not _funny_ ," Grue countered, grinding his fist into Regent’s head, behind the coronet. His arm spasmed, and Regent slipped from his grasp, ducking behind me. 

I sagged with relief. "Oh god, I was actually worried!" 

From behind, Regent gave me a friendly pat on the shoulder. "It’s fine, Specs, you're all good." 

As Lisa continued laughing, and Grue tried to get to Regent without getting too close to me, I had to wonder… how long had it been since I was around people joking like this? Including me, instead of making jokes at my expense? 

I couldn’t help but smile. For all the extenuating circumstances, for all the cloud of dread hovering around my future, my dad, my life… this was nice. 

Later, once everyone had settled down on the couch—Lisa next to me, now, curled up with her legs beneath her, and Regent and Grue fighting for space on the other couch, as the former kept trying to sprawl his legs onto the latter—Grue called out, getting my attention. I looked his way, curious. 

He cleared his throat. "I, uh, hope you don't mind I keep my distance." 

"Oh… no, that's fine. I get it." I genuinely did. My powers seemed surprisingly harmless—except to me, and my stomach twitched in the memory of pain—but I still understood his caution. 

He seemed relieved, his shoulders sagging slightly. "Thank you. Pizza?" 

He slid the box on the coffee table my way—I wasn’t sure where it had come from; was there a dedicated supervillain delivery service? Guaranteed anonymity or your money back?—and I reached for it gratefully. "Yeah, pizza would be great, thanks." 

For a while, we just watched bad television. Masks and costume aside, it was surprisingly normal. 

An hour or so later, I heard a door slam and the sounds of excited animals, the jingling of chains. I looked over to see Bitch standing by the stairs, three dogs waiting eagerly at attention. She met my eyes and I flinched instinctively, looking away, not wanting to provoke her again. It wasn’t the best reaction, and I chided myself for it, but then she surprised me by calling out softly my way. 

“Hey. Walk with me?” 

I looked up, and this time when our eyes met there wasn’t that fury I had seen earlier that day. Just… regret. 

Glancing around at the others—Regent and Grue were fighting over the remote, but Lisa just gave me a small nod of encouragement—I said “Sure” and got up to join her. 

For a moment I looked for the mask I’d gotten from the house, but… well, she wasn’t wearing one either. We were just two teenage girls in a somewhat crappy part of town, walking some dogs. In somewhat awkward silence. 

"I'm not stupid," she said out of nowhere. The crosswalk changed, and after a short pause I followed her as she walked the dogs across the street. 

"I didn't…” I protested, then just shrugged. “Okay." 

"I know you messed with my head." 

That stung a bit. It may have been in self defense, but it was still… invasive, I imagined, to have your brain rewritten, even if it was objectively for your own good. Her tone hadn’t been accusatory, though. Just stating facts. "I… yes. It's my power. I'm sorry I didn't ask." 

She gave a small nod, looking at the dogs, not at me. "I scared you. But that's not the point. It made me see things different. Things that were hard are easier. Not easy, but I feel like I've had practice. Seeing things. Reading people. Faces." 

Those were more continuous words than I’d expected from her, from what little I knew of her. But it made me feel a little better, nonetheless. "I helped?" 

She thought for a moment, then nodded, still not meeting my eyes. "Yeah." We had nearly reached the loft again, entering the alleyway beside the large red brick building it was hidden in. 

"I'm glad," I admitted. I did want to help people. 

She paused at the rusty double doors, then looked me in the eye, reached out her hand, and patted me twice on the head. Gently. 

Like a dog. 

I stared at her in confusion as she led the dogs inside. Paused a few steps away. Glanced back at me. And snorted at the look on my face. 

...She was messing with me, wasn’t she. 

She gestured for me to come inside, and the gesture was… friendly. 

I followed. 


	10. Residue

> “It was eerie. She was like a whole different person afterward. And it never went away! It wasn’t some… temporary effect. It changed who she was, who she would be for the rest of her life. That’s terrifying.” - Vista 

**Sophia Hess**

Sophia paused before she turned the corner, hearing hushed voices in the common room. Her first impulse was to burst out, glare at whoever was speaking—Dennis and Missy, from the sound of—and give as good as she got. Teach them the simple lesson: ‘talk shit, get hit.’ But… that seemed unnecessarily confrontational. Perhaps they weren’t even talking about her, and she was going to make the rumors and whispering worse? Better to just listen. She was being closely monitored, after all. 

“...she calls me Missy now,” she heard, and closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. Just because she was right didn’t mean she was _right_. “And it’s not a _bad_ thing, it’s just… weird, you know?” 

“I know what you mean. I used to give her shit all the time, just to get a rise out of her. She was predictable that way. Reliable.” Sophia scowled. Being consistent wasn’t the same as being _predictable_. 

“Now, I mean, I still tease her, prank her, just because I think she needs that… familiarity. To show we don’t think she’s a different person now, right?” There was a pause, a quiet sound that may have been a ‘hmm’ of agreement from Missy. That was… unexpectedly thoughtful, especially coming from Dennis. While she mentally reviewed the things he said since she got back from M/S confinement in this different light, he continued, “But she just gets that look on her face like she’s torn between smacking me and shooting back, and instead just… takes it.” 

That was because she didn’t want to get in _trouble_ , dipshit. Everyone was watching her. Everything she did was second-guessed, then third-guessed because her second-guessing might not be _hers_ , then fourth-guessed because she wasn’t sure if that was her either, then just thrown out because all that navel-gazing was stupid. It meant she ignored things she would have normally challenged, but it didn’t mean she was a _zombie_. 

She was halfway to stepping out and explaining just that when she heard Missy say, even more hushed than before, “Is it bad that I like her better this way?” 

Sophia didn’t bother sticking around to hear Dennis’s reply. She just turned to shadow, kicking off of the ground away from the room, back down the way she came. Silent as a ghost. 

=== 

There was a shuffling sound after she knocked on the door. Dean opened it a few seconds later, blinking at her from the darkness inside, lit only by the computer screen. He was still dressed in the undersuit, coming off of patrol, probably filling out reports. She made to let herself in, then hesitated. “Hey. You busy?” 

His eyes did that thing where they glanced around her face instead of at her, probably reading her aura, and she clenched her fist to keep from telling him to _get out of her head_. He got the gist anyway, swallowing heavily, and nodded. With forced casualness, he swung open the door fully, stepping back to let her through. “Not at all. What can I do for you?” 

For a moment his stupid Gallant act got on her nerves—he was out of costume, damnit, _act like a normal person_ —but she caught herself. His insight and… thoughtfulness, was why she was there in the first place. She wordlessly took his computer chair, spinning to face him, and he sat down on his bed, slightly more distance between them than was necessary. 

He waited patiently for her to start talking, and she took the chance to think. Something she… she was growing used to. It felt sometimes like she was drowning in her own introspection, choking on words before she could lash out with them, strangled by a straightjacket of her own thoughts. And yet… they were _her_ thoughts. Just… thoughts that she would have gotten around to herself, if the world hadn’t hammered her into the weapon she had been. _Fuck, she was doing it again_. 

“Do you like me better this way?” There. She could still be direct, she could still cut through all the bullshit and get to the point. Not dance around the topic like a fucking loser. 

He watched her for a long few seconds, then blew out a sigh. “It’s… a mixed bag.” 

She glared at him. _Have some spine, man_. 

He ran his fingers through his hair, not quite meeting her eyes. “The constant self-doubt, anger and guilt… aren’t great. But you’re not as angry as you used to be, and you’re less… abrasive.” 

She blew out a frustrated sigh through her nostrils. Almost walked away, considering him as useless as he always was. But he was trying to help, in his own half-assed, weak-sauce way. And he did talk to her, when asked. That counted. 

Sophia scowled at her own train of thought. Was she cutting him slack because he actually wasn’t a useless little weakling, or because _she_ made her feel that way? Breaking into the vault of her mind, rearranging all the furniture, leaving her mark on her own goddamn _thoughts_. 

“But what’s important is,” he continued, “I think you’re still _you_.” 

She scoffed. “Am I? Really? Checking every bolt to make sure it’s the right kind. Hesitating before every shot. Pulling my punches. Letting a little kid like Missy treat me like an equal instead of her superior. Does all that weak bullshit sound like the old me?” She clenched her fists as unwelcome thoughts rushed to fill in the gaps in those words. She was being _cautious_ because she didn’t want to hurt people unnecessarily, something she just didn’t care about before, or thought that her targets— _victims_ —deserved. She was treating them like people instead of outlets for her frustration and aggression. And Missy was a tough little bastard, even if she tried too hard to be an adult when she could be enjoying the lowered expectations and was probably just overcompensating because she wanted to be taken seriously and not coddled, just like… 

She balled her fists into her eyes, trying to make the _stupid fucking insights stop_. 

Dean watched her with concern, but kept his distance, which she appreciated. Even though that appreciation wasn’t something she’d have felt before, right? Who the hell was she, before? How did she live her life so fucking _blind_? 

“How do you _deal_ with this shit?” she blurted out, frustrated at the heat behind her eyes, the wetness that threatened to spill into weak goddamn (perfectly understandable) tears. “Seeing all this stuff and having to _care_ about it all?” He had to have some answers. He saw feelings. He could see suffering as clear as a billboard on people’s auras. How did he just… did he resent his power for showing him things he could have gone his whole life without knowing or caring about? 

“It’s shitty,” he admitted quietly, and she blinked at the crass, direct reply. He smiled weakly at her disbelief. “Seeing all the problems in the world that could be solved if people just saw what we see. How if people could see the price of their indifference and selfishness as easily as we did, just maybe there wouldn’t be so _much_ of it.” 

Hesitantly, he reached out and put a hand on her shoulder. Firm, reassuring. Strange, but… she couldn’t put in the effort to think how she would have reacted before, and just let it be. “What she did to you was… monstrous. _Forcing_ you to see your own mistakes, taking away your choice to grow into a person who might have reached those insights yourself. I understand how it must make you feel… robbed. Changed against your will. Not yourself.” 

She felt anger, then, and for once nothing in her silenced that. She clung to it, the genuine emotion, knowing it was her own and no one else’s, untouched. “Yeah,” she said simply, nearly snarling the word. 

“But the Sophia I knew? She was a fighter. Even when injured, even when outgunned and overwhelmed, she always came back swinging. I think the fact that you’re fighting now means you’re still you. And when you win, when you reconcile what happened to you with who you are deep inside, that person will be Sophia too.” 

She took a deep, shuddering breath, deliberately ignoring the wetness on her cheeks. That was right. She was a fighter. She never gave up, never surrendered, never let someone else define her. She would overcome this, take the good parts and leave the bad, and be a better _her_ for the experience. 

Sophia wiped at her face with the back of one hand, and Dean pulled his arm back, still giving her that small, encouraging smile. Maybe he wasn’t quite as useless as she thought, if he had to deal with this kind of shit day in and day out and still kept trying to make a difference. 

When she went back to the common room, Dennis was gone, but Missy was still there, working on homework, papers sprawled over the large round table in the middle. She looked up at her, wide-eyed, when Sophia sat down next to her, her own eyes dry, filled with determination. 

“Hey pipsqueak,” she said, dulling the edge of the words with a wry smile. 

“What do you want,” Missy asked, her expression a mixture of mild offense, surprise, and suspicion. 

“I need to get Dennis back for that rubber snake in the showers.” That stupid thing had scared the crap out of _both_ of them. “Do you want to help?” 

Missy’s face switched rapidly from confusion to realization to consideration and then shrewd agreement. “Hell yes. What are you thinking?” 

When Sophia smiled, then, it was distinctly… _predatory_. 


End file.
